So She Tells Her Story
by sweet little nightmare
Summary: We don't get to hear so much from Kate's point of view in the book, so this is my interpretation of her story, as I see it. Based on the book. Kate's point of view.


**Disclaimer: I don't own 'My Sister's Keeper' (wish that honour was mine!) ; Jodi Picoult does.**

**A/N: Giving Kate a chance to tell her story, since we don't much hear from her in the book. Starts when she's fifteen and Anna's twelve. Based on the book, not the movie.**

Monday

Last night, my sister cried herself to sleep.

She must have thought I was already sleeping, because I usually do end up going to sleep before her, but tonight, for some reason, I couldn't switch off. I tried chatting to Anna for a while but she just turned over so that she was facing away from me, feigning sleep, so I gave up on that and just lay there on my back, staring at the dark ceiling. There were several long, slow minutes of silence before that first sharp, suppressed intake of breath that told me exactly why Anna was facing away from me with her head buried into her pillow. She was crying.

I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but my mouth wouldn't speak the words that had formed in my head. Clearly, if she'd held back for this long, Anna didn't want anyone listening. She didn't want anyone's sympathy. And I, of all people, could understand that. Besides, being Anna, I was sure she'd end up opening up and telling me all about it the next day. If I knew her, she wouldn't be able to help herself. I was so sure of that, last night.

But this morning, when our alarm clock goes off, Anna gets dressed in silence, without once looking my way. She moves slowly, reluctantly, like someone walking through water, or in a dream. She drags a brush hurriedly through her light brown hair, grabs her schoolbag and leaves our room without a backward glance. This behaviour is so totally un-Anna that I can't even think straight, and I just stand there, staring after her for several moments, before I remember that since I'm not sick right now, I have to go to school too, and I haven't even decided what to wear yet. Hurriedly, I pick out a purple shirt and a pair of old jeans. So _not_ notice-me. Exactly how I like my fashion. My hair, which has by now grown just enough to be styled into a short pixie-crop with choppy layers, doesn't require brushing.

"Kate!" my mom yells up the stairs, "hurry down or you won't have time for breakfast!"

So I bundle up my stuff and get down there as fast as I can. So she won't worry.

Downstairs, Mom is flipping the pages of a magazine without actually reading it. Anna sits at the table, not touching her cereal, fiddling with her spoon and staring at nothing. Dad, of course, has already left for work at the fire station. Jesse, surprise, surprise, is nowhere to be seen. Probably holed up in his room sleeping off a heavy night of drinking and whatever else it is that he gets up to.

"Morning, Kate," Mom says breezily, "how're you feeling today?" she tosses this off lightly, the same way you'd ask a normal person what the weather's like outside, but we both know this question is anything but casual.

"Fine," I give the mandatory response to stop her worrying. I don't tell her that I'm tired, because of course she'll read way too much into that and think it's because I'm getting sick again, rather than because I couldn't sleep, plain and simple.

"Anna, you're going to have to ask Jesse if he'll take you to hockey practice today," Mom, now reassured that I'm not relapsing, starts actually acknowledging Anna's existence, "I need to –"

"I'm not going," Anna interrupts her. Mom and I both stare at her in shock. Anna's been the goalie for Jack Rydon's hockey team for nearly two years now, and she never misses a practice if she can help it. If she does have to miss one, she'll kick up a huge fuss, usually. And today she doesn't even want to go? What is up with that?

"I'm sorry," Mom blurts, sharply.

"I said," Anna replies, eyes fixed on the floor, "I'm not going today."

"Why not?" I want to know. My first thought is that guys from the team may have been picking on her, but she's gotten along fine with them for the past two years, so that doesn't make any sense. Then I feel sick to my stomach wondering if one of the guys on the team _did something_ to her. "Anna, why not?"

"Because," she stands up, scraping her chair back noisily on the tiled kitchen floor, "I just don't want to." Mom and I exchange worried glances – for once, we're actually thinking the same thing – and I start after her, but Mom gives me a stern look.

"Not you, Kate," she says flatly, "I'm not sending you to school without any breakfast." So much for us being on the same wave-length all of a sudden.

"Anna hasn't really eaten much of hers," I point out, not that this will do me any good.

"I don't care," says Mom firmly, "you eat before you go to school."

Anna, by this time, has already left the house and is probably half way to the bus stop. I sigh resignedly and pour Golden Grahams into my blue stripy cereal bowl, and for each spoonful that goes into my mouth I count another horrible possible reason for Anna's weird behaviour. It's like eating glass. I drop my spoon and stand up, shrugging on my coat and picking up my bag.

"Bye, Mom," I say. I can do fake-cheerful almost as well as she can, "I have to go now, or I'll miss the bus."

As I shut the front door behind me, I know that it's me she'll worry about all day. Not Anna. Which is how, on my first day back at school in ages, I wind up feeling like a prize jerk before I've even gotten there.


End file.
